A COVID Christmas

How should I start the last blog entry of 2020?  Maybe, I should begin by telling you that Alderaan and I are upstairs in my office? He’s in my lap, peeved that I took over the computer chair—which he whole-heartedly believes is his. Or, maybe by noting the weather? Writing something about how it rained Christmas day, but today, the day after the holiday, there are miniscule snowflakes drifting earthward?

Should I admit to having the post-holiday blues? Because I do.

Christmas, in our house, was warm and happy. Due to our competing work schedules, I don’t often have the opportunity to spend an entire day with my husband. The fact that we were able to spend Christmas Day together was wonderful. Magical. Fun.

Our boys woke me up at 4:12am, not because of the allure of Christmas presents, but because there was a stiff competition as to who was going to cuddle Mommy. Alderaan, having slept on my pillow all night, immediately became unhappy when Berkley made an early morning appearance. In fact, Alderaan lost his composure completely when Berkley had the audacity to jump on the bed, spread out beside Mommy, and then put his head on Mom’s chest.

Alderaan jumped off the bed, landing loudly on the floor, and stormed out the bedroom door. He came back though, moving silently through the shadows, and managing to climb atop the bedside shelving unit without being detected. From there, he started swiping knick-knacks onto the floor.

Nothing was broken…but it’s impossible to go back to sleep when you’re worried that a picture frame might be the next thing to be knocked down.

The entire household was up after that—Christmas lights and music were turned on. Dishes were washed and the furbabies were fed. Stockings were unpacked, and my husband and I were blessed by the sight of our furry children enjoying their presents—bones, a mega-sized tennis ball, and a cat toy that resembles a flattened mouse:

Still getting used to seeing it on the floor….

These weren’t the only presents given out. Twenty-minutes away, my parents and brother were unwrapping the gifts that we had chosen for them.

I have made a tradition of hand-painting Christmas ornaments. In past years, these typically consisted of pre-made wood or ceramic shapes that I would add acrylic color to. This year—for reasons that even I don’t know—I chose to paint scenes on wood slices. It’s a time-consuming process that my carpel tunnel resents. The results, however, far outweigh the cost. The ability to share how much I love and appreciate someone through art, is absolutely worth it.

I painted a family of snowmen for my mom and a masked polar bear for my brother. Although I personalized these ornaments in subtle ways, neither of these designs were 100% mine. Pinterest is an artist’s treasure trove (if you don’t have an account, I highly recommend getting one)!

Initially, I had planned to paint a woodland scene for my father, the woodcutter. I sketched a few ideas on loose-leaf paper, but it didn’t ‘fit’. I needed to paint something more personal, something with meaning. I soon found myself trolling my brother’s Facebook pictures, searching for photos of our father’s barn.

The barn he sketched for me…

I tear up whenever I think about this barn. You see, Dear Readers, this is the barn that my father designed in 2010 while I was lying in an ICU bed. I was thankfully unconscious for most of my ICU stay, but I can remember my Dad sitting in the chair beside my bed, sketching in a little black notebook.

He talked to me about this barn of paper and pencil lead.

The dream of it somehow infiltrated the darkness—because there was so much darkness during those days. I have never felt more alone than when I was unconscious in that hospital bed, heavily sedated, relying on machines to keep me alive. To keep me here.

I know…2010 should feel like a decade ago…but when you have Post-traumatic Stress Disorder…it was yesterday.

To see that dream-barn come to fruition—that’s hope manifested, Dear Readers. That’s the reminder that all things are possible through love and faith. It’s why I cried while painting this ornament:

It pains me that I didn’t get to see my dad’s reaction when he read the back of it:

Because, you know, stupid, but necessary, COVID-restrictions/guidelines.

Love, at times, can feel so good and yet so overwhelming. It is in these instances that it produces both gratitude and grief. I feel this same mixture of emotions when I listen to Christmas Eve sermons or to faith-based songs like Jars of Clay’s “Bethlehem Town”.

I feel it, too, as tears slip down my cheeks while writing this entry—and Alderaan comes to my rescue, curling up in my lap.

Thank you for joining me here today, Dear Readers. I hope, if you encounter the post-holiday blues, that happy memories fill your heart with warmth. I hope that a temperamental cat comes along to cheer you up. I hope we don’t have to wait until Christmas 2021 to say “I love you”, “you’re a blessing to me”, and “it helped”. Sending prayers, love and light your way.

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

Bjørnen

October has arrived and, with it, morning skies that are as inky and dark as the contents of a broken pen. My raised garden bed is almost entirely devoid of the color green; save for the kale that is somehow making a comeback?

There are other garden chores to attend to. This past week I transplanted my single lavender shoot. Locating a spot in the yard that offered both full sun and well-aerated soil was not an easy task. Additionally, I dug up my Gladiolus callianthus bulbs. They’re currently drying in the garage, before I pack them away for the winter.

Away.

Away like the geese migrating overhead through gray, cloudy skies.

Away like Riley, our foster dog, returning to his rightful owner.

As revealed in a previous entry (Please see, “Fare-Thee-Well”, posted 9/7/2020), I was not 100% on board with the idea of fostering a dog. Taking care of three dogs, at once, sounded impossible.

Little did I know, I would fall head-over-heels for this foster dog.

He became part of our family.

All of our fur babies came with names. Their names “fit” just fine, but, as a writer, I needed to insert some creativity into the situation. Thus, they now each have middle names.

Alderaan Birkir (an Icelandic schnaps that I ‘discovered’ while conducting research for a piece of fiction).

Luna Petunia (because it sort of rhymes?).

Berkley Fergus (I’m not responsible for this one, but he is most definitely a ‘Fergus’).

Middle names are especially important in our bed-time ritual in which I say to each fur-baby, “Goodnight, [insert fur-baby’s name]. I love you. Have sweet puppy dreams tonight.” Or, in Alderaan’s case, “Goodnight, Alderaan Birkir. I love you. Have sweet feline dreams”. I cannot take credit for this ritual; the idea for this bed-time practice came from a Facebook post shared, a few years ago, by The Joshua Fund Dog Rescue.

Similar to how we thrive when we feel loved, our fur-babies need to be reminded of how important they are, too. We may not speak the same language, but I believe that kind words and a warm tone convey the message.

When Riley moved in, I continued our bed-time practice, but I didn’t like leaving him out. He deserved to have sweet puppy dreams, too!

The goodnight formula, though, required a middle name. Did Riley have one? I had no idea…and I didn’t ask…but he needed one…so I gave him one.

Turns out, I needed help selecting one. During a wonderful FaceTime chat with a dear friend, I sought assistance with the quest for the ‘perfect’ middle name. My friend asked me if I had learned any names while studying Norwegian. I had…but none of them seemed to fit.

Riley Marius.

Riley Jens.

Riley Einar.

Nope. Nope. And nope. None of them were good enough my foster dog.

Still, as an aficionado of Norwegian, I kept searching. Had any other names appeared during my language lessons on DuoLingo? No, but I decided to give him this one: Bjørnen. In Norwegian, Bjørnen means “the bear”. If Riley is a bear, he’s a teddy bear! His presence has been such a comfort—helping me through the loss of my grandfather.

At ten years old, Riley is a gentleman. He seems to know exactly when I need a hug; he’ll walk over to me, tail wagging and mouth open in a canine grin, and wait for me to bend down and wrap my arms around his shoulders.

Tail wagging & canine grin

He is almost always my security blanket at night (except for evenings wherein he falls asleep in his own bed).

An active senior, Riley is quite playful:

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He’s the shadow at my side whenever I walk down the cement path in our backyard.

I have always wanted a dog that walked beside me, without a leash. When I was a kid, I imagined that that dog would be a German Shephard. Riley isn’t a Shephard, nor is he my dog, and it will hurt to give him back to his true owner. Yet, it’s where he belongs, and I know he has a loving and safe home there.

To paraphrase what another dear friend said about this reality: he will be taking a piece of your heart when he leaves.

It’s true. I will miss my Bjørnen.

I refuse, however, to let tears dilute the beauty of the incredible month that I have experienced with Riley. I will treasure everything that he has taught me/reminded me of: patience, kindness, caring, love…and self-care—especially regarding sleep!

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I am grateful for this dog…which is why I tell him, when Luna and Berkley aren’t listening, that he has been a blessing to me.

Riley’s presence, and his imminent absence, is, to me, the embodiment of Beth and Matt Redman’s praise song, “Blessed Be Your Name”:

…God you give and take away

Oh, you give and take away

[But] My heart will choose to say

Lord, blessed be Your name…

I, of course, do not have any rights to these lyrics. I can and will say, however, that this is one of the most powerful worship songs that I have ever had the opportunity to hear, sing, and apply to my own life. The upbeat melody is encouraging and invigorating.

What was I given? A senior dog to love and care for—something, Dear Readers, that 2010 me, after my first cancer experience, apparently had on her bucket list:

#17. Adopt Old Dogs.

Interesting how that item manifested, right?

There can be no doubt that I will miss my Bjørnen. It is, nevertheless, my hope that Luna and Berkley will assume some of his characteristics as they age.

May they be happy.

May they be healthy.

May they, at age 10, still drag around toys to play “fetch” and “tug of war” with.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. I hope you have the opportunity to experience the love of a senior dog and how comforting s/he can be. Sending prayers, love and light your way.

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

Update: Riley and his fur-ever family were reunited yesterday, Monday October 5^th, 2020. He was so happy to see them! His wagging tail and canine grin made me smile. It was a heart-warming sight. I am so grateful to have had Riley Bjørnen in my life.

Resources for the Curious:

To learn more about The Joshua Fund Dog Rescue, please visit: https://www.joshuafundrescue.org/

For more information pertaining to the song “Blessed Be Your Name” and its creators, Beth and Matt Redman, please visit: https://mattredman.com/

Where Blessings Abound

On Tuesday (7/7/2020) of this past week, I posted this on Facebook:

On this day, ten years ago, I was told (for the first time) that I had cancer. Unlike my previous cancerversaries, this one has been exceptionally emotional. I feel as though I have been on a rollercoaster ride all day – I have felt gratitude for this life, for outliving my original expiration date, but also, a tremendous amount of grief, survivor’s guilt, and fear. There’s simply too much in my head and in my heart to describe here.

10 years.

So, I will quote Desiderata, as I do every July 7th:

“Be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe.

No less than the trees and the stars;

You have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you,

No doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.”

Thank you, so much, for all of the prayers, love and light that you have given to me throughout this past decade. There are no words for just how much I appreciate all of you.

My head and my heart really were spinning. In the past, I had celebrated my cancerversaries with cake (preferably cakes with rainbow sprinkles on top of them). This one, I didn’t. I didn’t have the heart to celebrate…which I still can’t explain, even to myself.

Last Wednesday, July 8^th, 2020, I was more at peace with it all. The rollercoaster ride had ended and I was settled. Grounded in the present moment. This, too, mirrored how I felt ten years ago; on 7/8/2010, I was at peace. Complete and utter peace with my diagnosis. I firmly believed that whatever happened to me, was God’s will. It was His plan.

I know now, that that’s called, “shock”.

Despite the description of how I felt as being, “shock”, I prefer to think of it as peace, as comfort, and as assurance of His presence. I’m going to be stubborn about this one; say “shock” and I’m going to say “serenity”.

My Facebook post was met with a tremendous wave of love and good wishes. It was humbling and comforting. I couldn’t ask for better family and friends. The support was exactly what I needed to recover from a day spent sobbing (on both sides of the shower curtain). I also received some lovely, invaluable advice—which I plan to utilize.

One Facebook friend described her coping mechanism as doing what she loves, as much as she can.

What do I love to do?

Write. Read. Spend time with these furry babies:

Spending time in the garden is another hobby that brings me joy.

Flower on the green bean plant!

The perennial flower mix that I planted

It’s a miracle that most of everything is still alive (let’s not talk about the pepper plants that my dad gave me or the Bachelor Buttons that I tried to transplant). It has been a privilege to watch my pea plants flower and produce pods.

And, then, there’s this curiosity:

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I’ve never witnessed an onion going to seed before! There’s something beautiful about it.

Another element of life that I thoroughly enjoy is being artsy. My latest project involved capturing our fur babies’ paw prints in salt dough.

I’m not quite finished with this project; they need another coat of white paint and some detailing in either blue or black.

It’s a small thing, but it is a keepsake that I am sure we will treasure for the rest of our lives.

Echoing the above sentiment, is the gift box that my mom gave me (along with the gift inside of it) for my most recent birthday. The top of the box reads, “Enjoy the little things…for one day you will look back and realize they were the big things”. I don’t know who to attribute this quote to, but I feel as though it is of the utmost importance to embrace.

This “little thing” was stretching up alongside the raised bed garden, probably sniffing at the lettuce, kale and carrots. She’s still too small to hop up into it (which, of course, is a good thing).

Although I suspect that Tiny (pictured above – can you see her white tail?) is the one responsible for the destruction of the Johnny Jumps, I can’t help but feel blessed every time I see her.

Perhaps celebration wasn’t something that I could do on July 7^th, but today, I feel ready to count all of the remarkable blessings that I have been given.

En (one) – renewed faith

To (two) – my husband, our fur babies, as well as my family, both biological and married into

Tre (three) – the friends that I have made along the way

Fire (four) – the gift of continued learning (including Norwegian and the classes that I will be taking to become a professional medical coder)

Fem (five) – the gift of the five senses, so that I can see, hear, smell, taste, touch all of the God-given wonders of this life

Seks (six) – simply being alive!

Sju (seven) – my readers, who encourage me to keep writing, even when it’s difficult.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. You are a treasure to me. I am sending prayers, love and light your way.

 

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

 

 

Resources for the Curious

“Desiderata” is, in actuality, much longer than the segment that I shared on Facebook. It’s an inspiring poem by Max Ehrmann and is absolutely worth Googling!

Bird’s Eye View (Or a Squirrel’s)

I’m not going to write about COVID-19.

I know it’s not over.

I am aware that hiding from it is impossible. I am reminded of this every time that my husband returns home from his shift at the hospital. Despite the fact that he has changed and showered at work, I immediately sanitize everything that he touches. Because this is real…and terrifying.

I cried this morning.

Dear Readers, I need a break.

I need an opportunity to think, and write, about other subjects…so, here it is…eclectic moments from the past few weeks.

Gunpowder & Geese

It happened the last weekend in March.

I became a card-carrying member of a remote shooting range!

Do I like guns? I’m…well…still wary of them, even after my husband walked me through all of the safety precautions and procedures.

Am I a hunter? Absolutely not, and neither do I have any desire to become one.

Yet, in these “uncertain times”, with reports of shady characters lurking around residential areas, knowing how to handle a gun is probably not a bad skill to have.

I do hope, however, that it’s a skill that I will never have to use.

The day after we spent time at the shooting range, I could hear geese flying overhead. Flying North, flying home.

Healing & Hawks

Surprisingly, this time of forced “social distancing” and “isolation”, has gifted me with the time and the space to work on healing old wounds.

I am spending more and more time in the Bible and contemplating devotionals. I’ve been praying more. Singing more. I am in awe of this promise:

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.

 – Isaiah 41:10, as written in the New International Version of the Holy Bible

I’ve even been taking the occasional nap—something that those who know me well, know that I never do! I’m trying to listen to my body more. Trying to give it the time and the rest that it needs when I’ve pushed myself too far and too hard.

It was after one of these naps that I looked outside, and saw these guys across the road:

At first glance, these two birds looked like plump, Bantam hens. But they’re not! If I hadn’t watched one of them circle before landing, I would have had no clue that they were hawks.

I said a quiet prayer of gratitude that Alderaan isn’t an outside cat. These two bruisers could easily carry my 11.5-pound boy away.

Stories & Starlings

I stopped writing fiction nearly 8-months ago.

I was discouraged. Defeated. I had two unpublished novels just taking up space on various USB drives. I began to think that I wasn’t good enough, that my ideas were sub-par.

Then, I thought that maybe I was writing in the wrong genre…and began to research my options.

I needed a friendly nudge—permission, really—to write again.

That nudge came late last week when my Bone Marrow Donor and I were talking via a video call. Not only has this incredible woman given me a second chance at life, she’s given me the inspiration to start writing again.

This time, though, with all of the research that I’ve conducted, I will be taking the plunge into Christian Fiction. No, my chances of publication aren’t any better in the Christian market than they were in the Secular market. The Christian market has its own set of unique standards and criteria that will not be easy to meet.

Yet, I feel as though this is where I belong.

Perspective counts for so very much….

I audibly groaned when the starlings returned to our backyard in early March. I didn’t like them (not a Christian-like sentiment, right?). They’re mean birds, after all. And, their idea of singing is screeching! In some locales, starlings are considered to be an invasive species, as they reproduce in overwhelming numbers.

One day, I counted two-dozen starlings in the bare arms of our deciduous trees! Based solely on the cacophony echoing through our backyard, I’m fairly certain that there were quite a few more hiding out in the hedges.

Honestly, I didn’t like them.

There have been mornings in which I would have preferred a flock of Blue Jays’, and their piercing squawks, over the starlings’ shrill screams.

And, then, my perspective changed. I happened to see the starlings’ dark silhouettes against a twilight sky…and again against a cloudy sky…they were suddenly magical. Beautiful.

Well, Dear Readers, as you have witnessed, COVID-19 found multiple ways to sneak into this blog post. It’s okay, though. I feel better after writing all of this. I hope you feel better after reading it.

As always, thank you for your presence here. I am sending prayers, love and light YOUR way.

 

With Love & Gratitude,

Laura

May Flowers

As I write this, afternoon sunshine fills ours porch—and it warms my skin, the borrowed blood and platelets in my veins, my bones. The last few days, in fact, have brought an unexpected amount of sunshine and good news:

1. My last IT chemotherapy infusion through my Ommaya Reservoir (unicorn horn) came back cancer-free—meaning I now only have to have one IT infusion per week for the remainder of Course II. We are now one step closer to Boston and one step closer to bone marrow transplant!
2. I had my first ice cream of the summer and it was delicious.
3. They weren’t impressed by us, but we were able to visit with Wallace the Wonderful and Alderaan this weekend.
4. Seth and I are now engaged!!!!!!! For a variety of reasons, I was having a rough afternoon emotionally this past Friday. Sometimes the ugliness of this situation sneaks up on you, but it’s those moments—when things seem at their toughest—that the really good things happen. My (now) fiancé got down on one knee and proposed to me (with a ring that has apparently been hidden somewhere in this apartment for a while. Considering that I fold and put away the laundry, I know the ring wasn’t in his sock drawer).

All of these good things—combined with the warm sunshine—they are utterly overwhelming and wonderful. In many ways, I feel as though I have grown accustomed to hardships, to disappointment, and yet, in the course of a few days, my heart has swollen up with happiness again. April’s showers might just bring May flowers after all.

Seth and I ask, though, that you continue to keep us in your thoughts. While any step closer to Boston is a positive step, it is also tremendously terrifying. I discovered late this past week that upon my arrival in Boston, I will have to have a Hickman Catheter placed on the other side of my chest. It’s my understanding that the Hickman Catheter looks like a super-sized IV. It will have three nozzles hanging off of it; two of these nozzles will be in constant use (chemotherapy, the actual transplant, while the third will be used only if I have difficulty with nutritional in-take). My power port will also be accessed at all times. I hate the idea of having yet another device—especially an external one—but in this instance, I have no choice.

(I will have to, at some point, write about the hit your self-esteem takes during cancer treatment—just not today.)

We also ask that you send good vibes that a donor is found. Unfortunately, my brother was not a match for me, but we have been informed that there are multiple potential matches in the National Bone Marrow Registry. The search is on!

Please continue sending light and love. It is so, so appreciated.

With Love, Laura

Poop

I can’t believe I am going to write about this—the middle school girl inside of me is giggling at the subject—but I think there’s something to be learned from my recent experience with laxatives. Don’t worry; I won’t go into detail except to explain that many of the anti-nausea medications and chemotherapy that I take as part of my treatment plan can cause constipation. Poop—consistent poop—is part of the cancer world and when that consistency vanishes, the doctors and nurses have plenty of suggestions on how to bring it back. The use of Magnesium Citrate (very similar to preparing for a colonoscopy) is one of those options.

This post, though, really isn’t about bowel movements. It’s about holding on to things that maybe we shouldn’t hold on to—things that weigh us down, that slow our personal growth, that make us sick.

As an anxious person, I hold on to a lot of things that I shouldn’t. I repeat conversations (usually awkward ones) addendum. I worry about anything and everything (i.e. did we leave the stove on? Is there room in my budget for this? I’m cold; do I have a fever again?).

I hold on to dreams that no longer fit: jeans that are too small, shoes that were never comfortable to begin with, art supplies that I have “plans” for and then never utilize.

I also hold on to fear itself. For instance, when we went to Boston for the initial bone marrow transplant consultation, we were given a binder FULL of information regarding transplants. Instead of reading through it, I’ve kept the binder on the coffee table, allowing myself to panic every time I pass by it. The healthier thing to do would be to read the binder, write down questions, and contact the transplant nurse with those questions. But I haven’t done that. I’ve clung to being afraid of the process, to ignorance, to being overwhelmed by everything that needs to be accomplished between now and the transplant.

Not to make excuses, but it’s often easier to hold on to what’s known (and may or may not be healthy for us) than to let go of old hurts, too-small dreams and worries. It’s moments like these—when we’re bogged down by these things—that we need someone to come along with a bottle of hypothetical Magnesium Citrate. Is the cleansing process going to suck? Hell yeah. It’s going to burn. You’re going to question why you’re doing this cleanse, why you hate yourself so much. On the other side, though, is an opportunity to carry a little less of a burden. There’s a chance to create room for new dreams, new memories, positive experiences and growth.

As some of you are already aware, treatment did not go as planned this week. On Monday, I was scheduled to receive an infusion through my chest port, an infusion through my Ommaya Reservoir, and shots of chemotherapy to my legs. My counts were too low, however, for me to receive anything except the infusion through my chest port. I spent yesterday (Tuesday) receiving 2 units of blood and a unit of platelets instead. I feel a little more human, but time (in a couple of hours actually) will tell if the infusions were enough to bump up my numbers and restart treatment.  I can’t say I am looking forward to getting chemotherapy injected into my legs, but each dose brings us a little closer to the end goal.

Please keep us in your thoughts. There are days when this treatment protocol weighs on us, when the light at the end of the tunnel seems farther away than it did just the moment before. Please send light, love and healing thoughts whenever possible. We can’t do this without you.

 

With Love, Laura

Change

Dear Readers,

Writing, for me, tends to be best accomplished when the sun has not yet risen and the world is still half-asleep. Morning is the time of the day when I do my best thinking, when words come a little easier to me. It’s the time of day when a large cup of coffee holds magic, when the curved back of a sleeping cat puts life into perspective.

It’s rare that I sit down to write at night. And, yet, that’s exactly when this particular blogpost was written. These words found their place on my computer screen, not when the shadows in the room were shortening, but when they began to grow longer. They came to me in the absence of both coffee and of our cats (the boys are still on vacation at their grandparents’ house). I’d say that writing in the evening is a strange development, but, considering that most of my usual habits have been pitched out of the window, is it so strange?

(Not the most flattering picture of Wallace the Wonderful and I, but we were briefly reunited last week!)

As many of you know, this last month has been one of tremendous change. I crossed the mysterious border separating the healthy and the ill, reacquiring a diagnosis of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL). I wear a leg brace on my lower left leg now, because the tumor has caused some neurological damage to that foot. At different points in the last thirty days, I have had varying hairstyles—my natural locks, dyed red hair, and now only a soft stubble (which will probably fall out in the next week or two). I went from being device-free to having both a chest port and an Ommaya Reservoir in my head.

Change, it seems, is the rule of my days.

This constant inconsistency has been, I will admit, a bit unnerving. There are moments when it’s hard to digest everything that has happened and everything that will happen, but change is also a powerful teacher.

What do I mean by that? Well, each day presents me with a new set of changes and/or challenges; my problem-solving skills have never been so well-utilized! Can’t drink coffee because it’s too acidic? Add Ovaltine to it and only drink three-fourths of a cup (so I can still get my caffeine fix). Can’t have big meals due to nausea? Eat small snacks. Can’t get rid of the smell of the hospital? Explore aromatherapy and diffusing essential oils.

The fact that so much of my life—and my subsequent treatment plan—seems to err on the side of impermanence is also teaching me about flexibility. In truth, I really don’t know what I am doing for treatment beyond next week. My schedule looks like this:

Thursday – Chemo via the Ommaya and a bone marrow biopsy

Monday – Initial consult in Boston for the bone marrow transplant and tissue-typing

Tuesday – More chemo via the Ommaya

Beyond that? Well, there are ideas including a chemotherapy regimen that stretches into June and a course of radiation at the end of it, but all of that could change depending on the results of both the biopsy and the consult in Boston. Is that anxiety-provoking? Absolutely! I am a planner. I don’t like not knowing what’s going to happen, but this is a reality I have to learn to live with. To accept. To somehow survive and thrive in.

And, that, maybe is why I wrote this at night—to reassure myself that change, even when it is uncomfortable, can be positive. It doesn’t always have to be feared; it can be a tool to make us more adaptable. Maybe change can even be embraced; it can be a yoga partner, teaching us to stretch ourselves open up to new asanas and possibilities.

Tomorrow is going to be a difficult day, Dear Readers. Bone marrow biopsies are not pleasant experiences. Please pray that the procedure goes smoothly. Please pray that the results are in my favor. And, if you are able, please send light and love.

 

With Love, Laura

 

 

The Good That Each Moment Holds

Dear Readers,

I am writing this blogpost from the comfort of our own apartment. Sunlight is streaming through the glass, front door and the washing machine is humming in the background. I am surrounded by familiar landmarks—photographs, giant coffee mugs, and piles and piles of both read and unread books.

This feels normal.

This feels good.

If I weren’t bundled up in a sweater and layer of blankets, if I wasn’t fighting nausea, if I wasn’t struggling for control of my left leg, I could almost forget that I have cancer. I could almost forget that I have to return to the outpatient cancer clinic tomorrow for still more chemotherapy.

Almost.

The gravity of the situation sneaks up on me, Dear Readers. It surfaces when I least expect it to, knocking the air out of my lungs. It makes me cry—almost daily—and always in the evenings when the punch of the steroids begins to fade and the exhaustion creeps in. It tries to steal the joy still inherent in my days…but I won’t let it win.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

As difficult as my current circumstances are, there is still so much to be thankful for. There are blessings hidden in each hour. Every new day that I wake up to is an opportunity for grace and gratitude. AND that is what I will focus on—not on the future, not on whether or not this treatment plan is going to work in the long-term—but on the good that each moment holds.

Will it be easy? No. Absolutely not. I am going to have emotional meltdowns and days that I can’t leave my bed. Tears will be shed. Sobs will be stifled by pillows. It is in these moments that I will remind myself that life still has beauty and that no matter how difficult this journey is, it is worth it.

Tomorrow, I return to the Hematology/Oncology Outpatient Clinic for two different chemotherapies; one will be administered through my Ommaya Reservoir (my off-centered unicorn horn) while the other will be infused through my chest port. On Tuesday, I will take my last mega dose of steroids (yay!). On Thursday, providing my white blood cell count is high enough, I will receive another dose of chemotherapy through the Ommaya as well as undergo a bone marrow biopsy. The results of that biopsy will shape next week’s treatment plan.

On April 3^rd, my significant other and I will travel to Boston for the initial bone marrow transplant and tissue-typing consult.

I will need your continued support, Dear Readers, through all of this. I will need your prayers. I will need all the light and love that you can spare. I will do my best to keep you up-to-date, but please know that if you don’t hear from me, I am undoubtedly thinking about you and continuing to count YOU as a blessing.

With Love, Laura

Chomping on the Bit

Dear Readers,

I have been an inpatient on the cancer floor for over 3 weeks now.

I’m not sure where the time has gone…or, really, how I’ve spent it. I’m at a loss for what I’ve been doing or how I’ve been surviving this. Time seems to move both slowly and quickly here, measured not so much by the date on the calendar but by blood counts and chemotherapy drugs. It’s measured in new hardware—a chest power port and the Ommaya Reservoir in my head—and the fact that I can now strap on my own leg brace without assistance. It’s marked by meals that are starting to taste like metal. It’s spent coloring and reading three pages at a time (because the Ommaya still gives me bouts of motion sickness).

I look out the window a lot.

There’s an office across the courtyard and at this time of day, when the security lights are on but before the sun rises, I can see inside of it. There’s artwork on the wall and a vase of giant red flowers. I think I can make out the corner of a well-stocked bookshelf. It’s the sort of place that’s perfect for writing, for quiet contemplation.

Contemplation is something that I have been avoiding recently. True, being ill might be the perfect time to take stock of one’s life, reassess goals, make bright and happy plans for the future—but those hopeful thoughts have shadows.

What if the treatment stops working?

What if I never get to go home?

What if this is what the rest of my life looks like—tubes hanging out of my chest, 6 am blood draws, massive doses of steroids?

I want to live. I want to see what life is like on the other side of this…but, if I am being honest, I still don’t have the strength to endure this treatment. There are days when I think that I might have the resolve to do it—that there’s some steel left in my soul—but then there are mornings like this morning, and I know I am drained. There’s barely enough fight left in me to take a sponge bath or choke down a carton of milk. I know I still need you, Dear Readers, spoon-feeding me encouragement and strength. Prayers work. Good vibes mean something here; they permeate the hospital walls, they chase gloomy thoughts to the far corners of the room, they make the minutes pass a bit more gently. And I wouldn’t be here without them.

Without you, I wouldn’t be making progress.

The week ahead may look different for me. There’s chemo involved, of course—and heaping helpings of steroids still—but there is a small chance, Dear Readers, that the next step in the process has arrived. I may be discharged from the hospital as early as this afternoon (if treatment goes smoothly and if we can be exceptionally persuasive).

Am I excited? I am so very excited at this small measure of freedom! I will be free to leave the confines of the hospital, returning to the outpatient cancer clinic at least three times a week for both the heavy-hitting chemotherapies and injections into my Ommaya Reservoir (because, although the tumor is shrinking, it’s still there, circulating cancer blasts in my central nervous system). I will reside at the wonderful Hope Lodge—a move that will allow me to share the same room with my significant other, to have some comfort even though I am far, far away from our apartment, from Wallace the Wonderful, and from Alderaan.

Please pray that this change happens, Dear Readers. I will miss my inpatient care team, but in many ways, since this possibility was first mentioned, I feel as though I have become more and more horse-like, chomping on my bit. It’s as if the windows that don’t open now have drafts and I can smell the promise of spring. I need more of it. Please continue to send well-wishes. Please keep us in your thoughts.

You are carrying us through this process—one step at a time.

 

With Love, Laura

Gratitude & Homesickness Hold Hands

 

I slept through most of Blizzard Stella. As the storm’s fluffy snowflakes began to drift earthward, I let the pre-medications and chemotherapy take me away. I burrowed underneath my hospital blankets while my significant other stretched out in the recliner beside my bed. I closed my eyes, falling asleep to the sound of his breathing.

I’ve missed the sound of him sleeping.

Maybe that’s a strange thing to say or to miss…but I do. I miss the comfort of each inhalation and exhalation. I miss walking into our apartment living room, to find him sprawled out on the couch, mouth wide open, reddish hair sticking up in every possible direction.

I am homesick this morning, Dear Readers—for all of the little things that make our life beautiful. I miss the sound of Wallace the Wonderful and Alderaan charging through the living room on the way to their food dishes. I miss the squeal of the tea kettle and the giant mug in the cupboard that reads, “I Freaking Love You”. I miss the scent of our laundry detergent. I miss the taste of chocolate chia pudding (with a dash of cayenne and cinnamon in it).

I miss my clothes.

I miss feeling comfortable in my own my body—the body that didn’t have a 24/7 accessed chest port or an off-centered unicorn horn sticking out of her head.

I miss my life.

Most days, I try not to think about home. I try not to think about the future at all. Yet, here I am, pinning for the comfort of a thick sweater and the orange glow of the Himalayan Salt Lamp in our bedroom. I find myself wondering if my immune system will allow us to fill our screened-in porch with flowers again or if I’ll even be able to sit outside in the sun, sans mask, to write.

It’s the little things that make a life wonderful…and it’s all the little things that I am missing today.

If I am being honest, Dear Readers, I know why this is happening. We received good news yesterday—the tumor is shrinking! Treatment is working! My oncologist is reaching back out to his colleagues in Boston (where I will eventually be transferred) and additional plans for my ongoing treatment will be made. And, while I am beyond relieved and grateful for these positive developments, it makes my status as a hospital inpatient a bit more difficult to bear. It makes the clock’s hands tick louder. It makes each infusion and injection feel a bit more important…because I want each subsequent treatment to work just as well as the preceding ones. I feel as though there is pressure building, an impatience for this cancer to be gone, because I want to be home. I want to be healthy. I want this chapter of my life to finally close and be behind me once and for all.

I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I know that this is the privilege of good medicine and responsive genes allowing me the luxury of homesickness. I know, that even in this sadness and discomfort, that I am profoundly blessed.

And, maybe that’s the lesson of this day: that gratitude and homesickness can hold hands. That having something to be grateful for, having hopes and dreams for the future wouldn’t be as sweet if not tempered by the prospect of loss. That, even amid our uglier emotions, there is an opportunity to cultivate still more gratitude and grace.

I hope this week has been kind to you, Dear Readers. I hope, that if you find yourself in a situation of mixed emotions, that you give yourself permission to feel or at least acknowledge the existence of both. Because we’re human, because we’re beautifully complex, because our emotions are a part of our experience here.

As always, thank you for your continued prayers, warm wishes and good thoughts. They are working! I can’t do this without you.

With So Much Love to You, Laura